


long to give

by perpetualskies



Category: Sand Castle (2017)
Genre: (you know—considering the circumstances), Do Not Repost to Other Sites, Fluff, M/M, they are soft desert boys and that is all I have to say about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualskies/pseuds/perpetualskies
Summary: Matt and Harper playguess the word.
Relationships: James Harper/Matt Ocre
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	long to give

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with the rare pairs!
> 
> Concrit is always welcome. Comments are ❤.

Matt had wanted to get up at some point, he distinctly remembers that. He’s less sure about why he _hasn't_. Burton and Enzo had managed to, but didn't made it very far; they’ve collapsed into a pile on Enzo’s bunk with their boots still on and Burton artfully holding on to a bottle. A respectable effort, considering where Matt currently is.

It’s the most quiet you got around here at any given moment, if you deduct Chutsky’s and Burton’s snoring. Harper and Matt are the last two up, sitting with their backs pressed against a strand board wall opposite the barricaded window; between them is a zippo lighter, a pack of smokes, a nearly-empty bottle of questionable Iraqi booze and not a whole lot of space. It’s late, and they really ought to get to their respective bunks, but that would involve moving, and Matt’s been weighing the pros and cons of that for the last half hour or so.

“Hey,” Harper says slowly, motioning vaguely with his cigarette. It’s so dark that Matt can barely see him; it makes him feel a little safer looking at him as long as he usually does. “I’ve got a word for you.”

“Yeah?” Matt says and smiles, takes just another tiny sip. “Okay,” he says. “Although I have to warn you, Sergeant Harper. I know—” he holds up both of his hands in front of him and squints “—about ten words at the most right now.”

Harper raises his eyebrows, shooting him a sideways glance and blowing out some smoke towards the ceiling. “Ten words? And I thought you were the smart one, Ocre.”

Matt smiles wider. “With all due respect, Sir—I never said I was.”

“That’s fair,” Harper admits and makes a sound that starts out as a laugh, and ends up in a cough.

Matt pulls his right foot from under him, stretches it out and settles on the other. They’ve gone from the desert straight to drinking, his hands and neck and face still full of grime. They do this sometimes, when the day is particularly bleak and trudging. Today has been one of those days.

“Is it material?” Matt asks, momentarily picking at some dirt above the pocket on his thigh, then looking back at Harper.

“Yeah.”

“Is it useful?”

“I guess.”

“Can you buy it at Costco?”

“Probably.”

Matt’s thoughts are pleasantly slow, and truth is, he just wants Harper to keep talking. He wonders what would happen if he closed his eyes. It’s not _exactly_ comfortable where they are sitting but being so close to Harper always makes him feel a little safer and at ease. His eyes slip shut imagining a long hot shower and a milkshake, the smell of grass after a hard mid-morning rain. He doesn’t really know why Harper hasn’t long since ordered him to bed.

“Hey.” Harper nudges his thigh with his knee. “You’re fucking terrible at this,” he says, and Matt smiles in return, slow and content. He realizes this whole night he’s been smiling a _lot_.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” he says, his body tipping slightly sideways. His cheek finds Harper’s shoulder, comfortable and warm. He sighs, and makes a final effort: “Is it in this room right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it Burton’s snoring?”

“You can buy that at Costco’s?”

Matt shrugs. The shoulder isn’t moving anywhere so he inches a little closer, his body relaxing around Harper’s frame. He feels a hand rest lightly on his knee and turns his face a little more into the Sergeant’s neck. He’s already forgotten most of the questions that he’s asked, and has trouble coming up with any new ones. Harper’s breathing is slow and lulling; he can feel his chest expand when he is taking yet another drag. Matt wishes he could be just a little less drunk so that he could remember all this better in the morning. He wishes he could be just a little _more_ drunk so that he could—

“Get some rest, Ocre,” Harper says quietly, his voice much closer than it was before.

Matt thinks he can feel Harper’s lips press up against the side of his head right before he falls asleep.

Matt wakes up to a lot of commotion and the muzzle of Chutsky’s M16 boring into his shoulder. “Rise and shine, Private Ocre,” he orders, much louder than Matt thinks he _needs_ to. “Sergeant wants us ready to go in 10 minutes.”

Matt grunts into his pillow in response. His head feels like an empty ball pit; he really, really doesn’t want to smell his breath. Someone brushes against his foot passing by the bunk, and that’s when things start falling into place, or more like sliding, very slowly: this is decidedly _not_ top bunk, and once he’s got hold of _that_ thought he takes a deep, deep breath, and—yeah.

Burton whistles at him from the doorway. “Damn, Ocre, that’s real smooth, I give you that.”

Matt tries to send a nearby boot in his direction and miserably fails.

The convoy’s ready when he makes it downstairs nine and a half minutes later—Harper is getting some last minute updates from the Captain, with Aika milling about at their feet. Syverson hits the hood of the Humvee and takes off as Matt’s approaching, and Harper calls him over in his stead.

“You alright, Ocre?” he asks, folding up the map, looking slightly bemused as he gives Matt a once-over.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Eaten anything?”

“There was no time, Sir.”

Harper looks at him for a moment longer; Matt’s not sure if he’s going to be chewed out or be chewed out. “Drink this at least,” he says, and hands him his own enamel cup of coffee from where it was balanced on the hood of the Humvee.

“I’m really fine—” Matt starts because that’s _Harper’s_ cup, and they all know it, and he’s getting enough flak from the guys as it is.

“Just fucking drink it, Ocre,” Harper says in his patented _am-I-or-am-I-_ not _-your-fucking-NCO_ voice and Matt accepts the cup.

“Hey, Sergeant!” Chutsky yells from behind the top gun as they approach the vehicle, “I didn’t have time for coffee either!”

“Do you have time for this?” Harper shouts back and grins and flips him off.

“Everyone’s in their bunk by lights out,” Harper orders. It’s been an even longer day; they’re tired, worn-out, and barely thinking straight.

“Everyone’s in _someone’s_ bunk, I bet,” Burton adds under his breath while putting out his cigarette and Enzo snickers. Matt grabs his vanity kit and bolts. He’s done spitting the last of his tooth paste into the sink when Harper steps into the room.

“You done?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Matt replies and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He packs up his things, steps away from the sink and watches as the Sergeant starts wiping at his neck and face, not knowing what it is exactly that he wants to say.

Harper stops mid-motion and fixes him with a long look, not unkindly. “They’re just teasing, Private,” he says. “You passed out so I dumped you in my own bunk and slept in yours.”

“Yeah,” Matt says slowly, “I figured.” He doesn’t know why, but he can’t quite meet the Sergeant’s eyes.

“Anything else on your mind?”

Matt suddenly remembers. “What was the word?”

“The word?”

“The word you had me guess.”

The corner of Harper’s mouth quirks up while he is rolling up his tube of tooth paste. “’s not how the game works, Private.”

Matt smiles and turns back to the stairs.

Matt lies awake that night, remembering more than just guessing, more than just strand board and the smell of cigarettes. He feels Harper shift in the bunk below him, and wonders if Harper remembers it also, and if his sheets still carry some of Matt’s own scent. He must be a complete and utter fool for thinking what he’s thinking; the guys give him enough grief as it is. He turns onto his side, his eyes following the tiniest streak of moon light; he doesn’t quite know how to stop.

Harper wakes him first the next morning, brushes some hair out of his face and quietly says, “Go get some breakfast, Ocre.”

Matt hides a smile into his pillow and thinks: maybe he isn’t such a fool after all.


End file.
